Here, sir, _Jack and the Bean Stalk_,
most profound thing. I read it to myself often still.
How damp it is! Pray, sir, will you let me dry my books
before your fire?"
"Only too willingly," I said. "How wet and torn they are!"
Father Christmas had risen from his chair and was fumbling
among his tattered packages, taking from them his children's
books, all limp and draggled from the rain and wind.
"All wet and torn!" he murmured, and his voice sank again
into sadness. "I have carried them these three years
past. Look! These were for little children in Belgium
and in Serbia. Can I get them to them, think you?"
Time gently shook his head.
"But presently, perhaps," said Father Christmas, "if I
dry and mend them. Look, some of them were inscribed
already! This one, see you, was written '_With father's
love_.' Why has it never come to him? Is it rain or tears
upon the page?"
He stood bowed over his little books, his hands trembling
as he turned the pages. Then he looked up, the old fear
upon his face again.
"That sound!" he said. "Listen! It is guns--I hear them."
"No, no," I said, "it is nothing. Only a car passing in
the street below."
"Listen," he said. "Hear that again--voices crying!"
"No, no," I answered, "not voices, only the night wind
among the trees.
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